


A Darling Boy Is Broken

by orphan_account



Series: A Darling Boy [1]
Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Freak Show
Genre: Gang Rape, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual, Past Rape/Non-con, Prison Sex, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, prison rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2781467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning directly following Jimmy's arrest at the end of Freak Show episode 9. Jimmy is alone in an interrogation room remembering the events of his first night in prison with the evidence of the incident still on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Darling Boy Is Broken

**Author's Note:**

> After that episode, I just couldn't get the idea out of my head of Jimmy meeting a similarly violent encounter in the prison as Meep did, but without the murder.

“I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it! Please listen to me dammit! I can’t stay here!” Jimmy kept screaming until his voice grew too hoarse to continue. The impassivity of the black wall of the one-way mirror faced him like an unmerciful judge, ready to execute him for all his failings. The words “Meep,“ and “Please, God. Please,” kept reverberating in his head like the pounding of a gavel. Only the reflection of the interrogation room he was in and the room itself provided company for his screaming.

As Jimmy stumbled to his knees, his left hand listlessly remained flopped on the table surface. His hand was cuffed to the steal pole that rested horizontally above the wooden table, curving onto the wood and secured in place by 4 nails on both sides. The only chair in the room was directly across from him on the other side of the table. Since the chain was pulled short on his wrist, he was partially slouched over the table. The cold metal of the small handcuff bit into his wrist. The evidence of their night-long tenure on both of his wrists left pinkish bruises to match its darker siblings spread across his body. Except for a black eye, a bruise on his cheek, and a few scratches, his face was unmarred by the night he spent in the jail cell. It was the rest of his body that had taken the most of the toll.

Jimmy’s clothes were torn and disheveled on his frame. His button-up shirt was gone, wrenched away in the confusion of his struggle against the inmates. His t-shirt was ripped open into a ragged v, stopping a little above the hem. It hanged off of him like an opened jacket, exposing the bruising and welts on his torso to the overly air-conditioned temperature of the room. His pants were ripped open in the back along the crevice of his ass. The fabric of his white briefs was similarly torn, revealing the blonde peach fuzz that covered his ass as well as the cum that had dried clinging to those hairs. Cum stain decorated his shirt, pants, and even his hair, flaking yellow in the fluorescent lighting. Jimmy failed to suppress a shudder at the memory of that night: at the ache that painfully thrummed throughout his body, at the shame that burned him hotter than any poker ever could, and at the fear that all this had happed to poor, innocent Meep.

“Is this what happened to him? Before they stabbed him with knives, did they fuck him like a pincushion, too?” Jimmy’s thoughts were jumbled with this question when he was being held down and fucked, his body limply accepting the punishment after several beatings and wasted effort in stopping them. Bile rises in his throat as the memories come back like a flood of sewage. His nose fills with the memory of the smell: sweat, cum, and acrid crotch as he was pushed face first into the cement floor. The feeling of their sticky bodies as they forced his legs open before impaling him: one after the other after the other. The pain as his hands were crushed beneath the cruelty of the inmates and his own body as he was thrown around for their convenience like a sex ragdoll. The callused hands pulling his mouth open. The threats ordering him to not bite or to say good bye to his little freak maker. The taste as they – as he let them, he reminded myself – force their tongues and fingers and cocks into his mouth, feeding him cum, the faint traces of piss, and the food that he had refused to eat earlier. He attempted to push it deep down like all the other bad memories in his life. To focus on the good/the normal, but images came unfettered into his mind. Nightmares that he wished were only nightmares of the heaving bodies above and below him. Laughing faces – both inmates and police – mocking him, calling him the “Fag Freak” and “Dildo claws”. Thick spurts of cum jetting out of angry-looking cocks as men came on his face while others contented themselves with merely unloading down his throat and ass. He could have sworn that his body had become an ant hill with literal fire ants: burning cum being pushed out and into him with a ravenous intensity.

Nausea formed in Jimmy’s stomach, mixing with the cum that was dumped there. His forehead presses down heavily on the edge of the table, the slight warmth of the table offering no comfort. The sounds were the worst. The breathy moans and grunts. The sounds of his rapists being cheered and clapped on as whistles blew and laughs echoed into his ears. The worst of all was his own cries. His own screams and pleas as tears ran down his face. He kept crying, pleading someone to stop them/to help him even as he was laughed down and even though he knew the coppers were cheering them on. Even when he had every ounce of fight fucked and beaten out of him, he wasn’t man enough to stop sniffling/to stop gasping in pain with every thrust and jab. “In this world, you have to be tough because the only safe place for you is in the confines of your own mind,” was what his mama had always told him, but now she was dead and his only safe place was irrevocably demolished, littered with the memories of the previous night.

Jimmy bit his cheek as he felt tears threaten. “I won’t cry. Not in front of those bastards,” he shouted to himself inside the no longer secure confines of his own mind. Even as the words filled his head, tears started to fall, staining his cheeks and dripping on the cement floor below. After a moment of restraint, his voice cracked into being: low sobs meeting his tears in a duet of water and sound. His only consolations were that the table obscured his face from whoever was watching behind the glass and that his voice was too low for that person to hear.


End file.
